


Letting Go

by BewareTheIdes15



Series: Not A Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Angst, M/M, Piercings, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:03:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam whumps into the worn-soft sheets of Dean's bed - striped once, he thinks, but the pattern's mostly faded - the scent of Dean rising up around him like an unsettled cloud of dust. The smell pulls at something low in his gut and he huffs like he can get it out of his nose, like Dean's not an infection living so deep in his blood it might never come out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Go

Sam whumps into the worn-soft sheets of Dean's bed - striped once, he thinks, but the pattern's mostly faded - the scent of Dean rising up around him like an unsettled cloud of dust. The smell pulls at something low in his gut and he huffs like he can get it out of his nose, like Dean's not an infection living so deep in his blood it might never come out.

It's dark and his eyes take a little while to adjust, but he can make out everything in his mind’s eye long before his hazel ones can pick it up. There's still the same ZZ Top poster tacked to the wall, which had to have been old even before Dean got it, but it's been a fixture of the room for as long as Sam's been sneaking in - through the back door, not the window, because he's considerate like that.

The same second-hand furniture, even though Dean has to lay diagonal on the single-bed to keep his feet from hanging off. The surface of the desk in the corner hasn't seen the light of day in years, buried under piles of the nameless crap that always seems to gravitate into Dean’s orbit. Little gears and wingnuts and wires, bike chains and an assortment of leather straps Sam had never actually been brave enough to ask about - really can't afford to go putting ideas in Dean's head.

The nightstand is the only other furniture in the tiny room, monopolized by one of those bendy desk lamps that gets so hot you can't touch it if it's been on for more than two minutes and Sam keeps insisting it’s a fire hazard. He's pretty sure Dean just keeps it to annoy him. There's also a little alarm clock there, so old it actually ticks, which would make Sam crazy but Dean loves. It reminds Sam of when they first found Rumsfeld when he was little and he wouldn't sleep in his little bed until they wrapped up an old pocket watch in a blanket and set it in there with him. His dad had said it was like a heartbeat, so the pup wouldn't feel alone; sometimes he wonders if that's why Dean sleeps with his head on Sam's chest.

There are a couple of Hustler's dangling halfway off the nightstand too, and the remnants of a little plastic bag that he knows used to be full of weed before Dean insisted they smoke it all one night and fool around. Sam had to grudgingly admit it had felt pretty awesome. Tucked on the backside of the alarm clock, there's the stub of an eyeliner that Dean will never admit to wearing when he talks his way into bars, but Sam's seen him put it on; the way those green eyes suddenly look big enough to fall into, sinful enough to stay in.

The only other thing he can make out on the table is the shine of one of Dean's spare tongue studs - Dean can really suck at that hygiene thing. Sam rolls the tiny barbell around on the wood for a minute, walking it back and forth with his fingers, before finally surrendering to the nagging urge; he picks it up and lays it on the flat of his tongue. It's cold and alien and somehow intimate because it goes inside of Dean and now it's in him.

The pattern of cheap venetian blinds sweeps across the pebbled ceiling as a car passes by on the street. Too quiet, not the car Sam's waiting for. He sucks on the little bit of metal digging into the roof of his mouth and wonders when things got all messed up with them. Sometimes he's sure, absolutely sure, that it was after that first time Dean kissed him, other times he knows it had been floating around between them even before that.

He'd been ten, Dean twelve, and just enough older to seem like the coolest kid on the planet to Sam. Dean did pretty much whatever he wanted, even back then, because Mr. Winchester didn't care; skipped classes, got into fights, one time Sam had even seen him smoking a cigarette behind the rental house and that had made him pretty much the biggest bad ass Sam had ever known. So, unsurprisingly, Sam had followed Dean around a lot back then. Not like it was hard, the kid had been over at their house for dinner almost every night for four years, but once Sam's mom had decided to move out, Dean stopped just hanging around all the time and Sam had to step up his game to keep up with the older boy.

Finally one afternoon when Sam's dad and he went over to the Winchester's to watch the football game - and the boys were unceremoniously banished to Dean's room while their dads drank beer - Dean had gotten fed up with Sam tagging around after him like a lost dog. Exactly why pinning Sam to the bed and kissing him had been Dean's brilliant 'leave me alone' course of action, Sam still didn't understand.

Dean had been bigger and stronger, muscles still lean but already more defined than most boys his age, and he just held Sam down on the cheap mattress as he shoved his slick, warm - then-unmarred - tongue so far into Sam's mouth that he couldn't breathe. Of course, Dean had also been a twelve year-old boy with the hormones to match, so the 'leave me alone' kissing - if only that was the most nonsensical thing Dean had ever done - had turned into 'hey, you have a nice mouth' kissing and Sam had ended the evening with his first hickey and absolutely no clue what was going on.

So maybe that was when things had gotten screwed up, that year or so when he was too shocked and in awe of Dean to tell him to stop before Sam grew up enough for the things Dean did to him to start feeling really good. Or maybe that was just a symptom of the fact that, for two guys who had nothing in common, they were exactly the same; two sides of a coin. Sometimes that was way scarier than all of the rest of their weirdness combined.

Either way, it doesn't change the fact that Sam is laying here on Dean's bed after what was supposed to be the date where he finally had sex with Gwen, zoning out to the sucking motion of his own mouth around a piece of steel that usually lives inside Dean's body.

The rumble of the Impala pulling into the driveway feels like it shakes something down deep inside of Sam and he has that moment, as he almost always does, of panicky consideration. He could go right now, get up and rush down the back hallway before Dean comes inside and slip back to his own house with no one the wiser. He could be alone then - Dean wouldn't come to him tonight; never did after Sam had a date, jealous ass - but the truth was, he wouldn't have come all the way over here if this wasn't where he wanted to be, if he didn't want to feel Dean against him, even when he knew he shouldn't.

It's too late now anyway, Dean's boot-treads lumbering down the hallway, and a part of Sam thinks that he was just stalling his guilt-tripped brain until he wouldn't have a chance to back out. It's not the first time he's thought that.

Dean's door creaks on its hinges and even though the older boy doesn't turn on the light, he knows Dean knows he's here.

"What's up, Sammy?" he says in that soft-gruff way that's an accusation if Sam's ever heard one. His keys plunk down on into their usual spot on the cluttered desk and he shucks out of his jacket casually, never quite looking at the bed.

Sam has to take the stud out of his mouth to answer; tries to be discreet about putting it back on the table but he can feel Dean notice it, swears the pressure in the room shifts because sometimes being with Dean is like being psychic, feeling everything the other person does with no good explanation for why.

"Just felt like coming over," is the answer Sam gives, squirming his shoulders back into the pillows like he's perfectly at ease and not all tangled up inside like wrecked fishing line.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, enough edge on it to cut the tension-thick air to ribbons.

"Yeah," Sam shrugs. Dean struggles awkwardly to take off his boots without sitting down on the bed, teeters once into the wall with a bang that would have woken most parents, assuming they weren't as dead drunk as Mr. Winchester.

The boots are flung into the far corner with a glare like they'd done Dean some personal offence. Dean grabs up a rag from the mess of the room, starts hopelessly scrubbing at the black grease stains on his hands.

"How was your date?" It's clipped and dry, a minefield of possible answers and none of them good.

"Ok," is all Sam says; no point in handing Dean cannon fodder. He picks at a loose thread on the sheets with his short fingernails and listens to the huff of his friend's humorless laugh.

"Gwen show you a good time?" Dean sneers. His hand has to hurt from the force he's scrubbing it with, but he doesn't let up and doesn't look at Sam, single-minded focus on the sin of dirt on his hands.

Sam sighs, "Not exactly."

The cloth hits the wall beside Sam's head half a second before he's being hauled up by the front of his shirt to kneel on the mattress. Dean pulls him until they're pressed together in a tight line, Sam's position on the bed making him shorter, forcing him to look up into Dean's face like he used to.

"What's a'matter, Sammy?" Dean growls, teeth glinting in the moonlight on a parody of a grin, "She wouldn't put out for you? Got you all worked up and left you hanging, so you had to come to me?" His thick fingers press at the cleft of Sam's ass through his jeans; not a threat, a promise. Dean will never turn him away, not even like this, but he'll make Sam pay dearly for it; make sure he doesn't sit down for a week without remembering Dean inside of him, making him come apart. Sam's cock is swelling half-hard just thinking about it, which is messed up enough to remind him why he came here in the first place.

"It wasn't like that," comes out too breathy. If he could just get some air that's not tainted by the scent of sweat and motor oil and Dean's skin, he could maybe think of the right way to say this, but that's not gonna happen, Dean's not going to let go, so Sam just lets it all tumble out of him every which way. "I couldn't. I wanted to but – God, Dean, I couldn't stop thinking about you and I couldn't- I just couldn't stop."

He lets his head fall forward onto the stretch of muscle between Dean’s neck and shoulder, scrubs his burning cheeks against his friend's sweat-damp t-shirt. Dean's absolutely still against him; Sam's pretty sure he's not even breathing.

Then, like a trap snapping shut, Dean's arms close around him, one crushing him in a breath-stealing grip against Dean's ribs, the other clamping down on the back of his head to hold him in place. Dean's face buries itself in Sam's hair; deep, unsteady breaths and fast, hungry kisses. His own hands tangle up in Dean's shirt and he doesn't know if the prickle of tears burning in his eyes is for how good it feels or for being this fucked up. Dean whispers endearments and praise and things that aren't words at all but sound right, feel good sinking warm and soothing into his skin.

Just as quick as it happened, Dean pulls back, hands cupping the sides of Sam's face. He kisses him fiercely, mumbles against Sam's lips, "Let me get clean for you." He kisses Sam urgently again, like he can't stop himself even though his body is pulling away. "Quick shower, I promise. Stay right there." One last hard kiss and he's half way out the door, stopping at the threshold to say "Get naked for me," feverishly over his shoulder. Its three seconds before Sam hears the shower turn on.

Sam's chest is tight, heart fluttering like all of the razor-winged butterflies in his stomach moved north for the winter. He starts stripping himself down before his brain can talk him out of it. He doesn't want this time to think, is afraid of it, because he shouldn't be alone in his head right now.

In his head things are confusing; Dean's his best friend, secret lover, almost-brother, the thing he's most afraid of turning into and he doesn't know what to do with the fact that he needs this so bad, would choose this messed up thing between them over normal and happy and real. With Dean's hands on him it will make sense, he'll forget all the reasons why they shouldn't do this, how they could never really be together when what they want out of life is so different. With Dean's hands on him there's nothing else in the world and that's what Sam needs more than anything.

The air's almost too cool as his boxers pool around his ankles and he flops down on the bed again, hand immediately searching underneath it for the well-used, sticky bottle of lube. A few dust bunnies later he finds it, scrubs his hands clean on the sheets automatically before slicking up his fingers.

He pushes two inside of himself immediately, too much to start off with - his body always tightens back up like he's never been touched before - but he needs the shock of sensation to keep the yammering of his mind at bay. The hot burn of intrusion quickly gives way to gritty pleasure and Sam forces his fingers apart, chases that pain/pleasure line until it gets all mixed up with the slow ache of his balls, the steady throb of blood filling his cock.

The shower shuts off with a squeak he can hear from down the hall and Sam forces in a third finger, curling all three until he hits that white-hot place inside. Dean's footsteps pad down the hallway again and Sam's feet skid up the mattress, hips lifting up off of the sheets and fucking down into his own fingers. This is what Dean does to him, the place he gets Sam's head to, so he might as well get to enjoy the show.

And by the way his breath catches when he reaches the doorway, he's enjoying it plenty.

"Jesus, Sam," has all the reverence of a prayer and Dean hits his knees just like it was one. He ditches the towel slung around his hips and crawls the rest of the way up onto the bed to watch Sam's fingers disappear inside himself.

His studded tongue snakes out to lap around Sam's fingers, between them, the sharp sensation of metal on his stretched, sensitive flesh jangling along Sam's nerves until he's struggling for breath. Metal beads massage along the rim and Sam's body fights with the twin urges to close down and open up for it.

"Please say you're ready for me," Dean whimpers, forehead cradled in the join of Sam's thigh. Smooth rounded steel caressing the tender skin of his sac distracts Sam too much to answer for a minute. When he does, the best he can muster is a grunt-and-nod combo.

Dean's on him in a second, pulling Sam's fingers from his body gasping-fast and curls them around Dean's cock, using the remaining slick on his hand to lube Dean up. Then the older boy's covering every inch of Sam he can get to, skin shower-warm and damp, still smelling faintly of sweat and axel grease like he couldn't be wait long enough to even wash properly. Sam doesn't mind in the least.

One of Dean's hands twines itself with Sam's, the other guiding the his furnace-hot cock to Sam's entrance. The first push in has Sam arching, body instinctually trying to escape, but Dean just holds him steady, presses all the way in with one long, slow thrust that leaves Sam trembling.

"Love you baby," Dean chastely kisses down his temple, across his cheekbones, "Love you so much. So good, so sweet. My baby, my Sammy." His lips brush so gently over Sam's it's barely a kiss, sinking slowly into it by fractions of pressure until Sam's got a mouthful of metal and tongue to match the fill of Dean's dick inside of him and he's so swallowed up by it all he can't see straight.

Then Dean starts to thrust, shallow and gentle, pulling out just enough to drag over that sweet place inside so that Sam's writhing and clinging, taking everything and still not enough. Dean grabs his other hand, laces those fingers together as well and brings them both up over Sam's head. They're connected chest to hip, Sam's needy dick trapped between their flexing stomachs, body lighting up like a Christmas tree from the sheer, friction-pleasure inside and out.

Dean's thrusts deepen with his kisses, sinuous rolls of his hips that have him coming all the way out to the head before pushing back in as deep as he can get. The grind of their bodies is rubbing Sam off, friction inside him spiraling that tight ball of heat in his gut higher.

"Love that don't you?" Dean breathes into Sam's gaping mouth, studded tongue flicking out to taste the washboard ridges of the roof of it. "Love me deep inside, fucking you open, making you mine. All mine. That's exactly what you want isn't it?"

Sam groans and tosses his head, too caught up in it for anything more coherent than another breathless nod.

"Yeah, that's it, baby. Give it up. Gimme everything." Dean grits his teeth, fingers clenching in a white-knucked grip around Sam's and that slow roll of his hips turns faster, more frantic. Every inch of them that's touching is sweat-slick, Sam's dick sliding through the wet mess of it on their bellies, almost outdone by the pressure of Dean's body on top of him as much as the tantalizing glide inside.

Dean adds this sharp burst of force to his stroke, pounds over that spot inside of Sam until his voice is punched out of his throat in ragged jolts. The smooth brush of metal again, this time at his neck as Dean licks up the trickles of sweat there, sucking a bruise into the skin and pulling away with a pop.

"Love you, love you, love you," is pouring over Sam's lips on every breath, balls drawing up tight against his body, curl of tight heat winding up to explode.

That damn ring Dean always wears digs into the webbing of Sam's finger as Dean grips him even harder and there'll be a bruise at best, maybe even a cut, but it's not the worst mark he's ever worn from Dean and easy enough to explain away, so Sam just matches the force of it with his own fingers like a dare and locks his thighs around Dean's hips.

The grip of his legs around Dean changes the angle, intensifies the jarring pound of Dean's dick inside of him until Sam can't do anything but drag in fiery, desperate breaths of Dean-heavy air, surrounded, filled owned.

Orgasm blinds him for a second when it hits, everything else distant and surreal compared to the brutal flare of pleasure rolling through his gut, zinging up his spine. Dean's right there too, his cry of Sam's name harsh in Sam's ear, then the hot thrill of teeth clamping down on his earlobe, slick heat filling him below.

For long minutes there's nothing but the sharp tempo of their breathing in the sex-tinged chill, the thud of their heartbeats - synced up through the close press of their chests - and Dean's deep 'mmm's of pleasure reverberating against Sam's skin.

"Sorry about your date, Sammy," Dean chuckles finally, the vibration of it rocking through both of their bodies.

"Shut up," Sam bites lazily at the meat of Dean's shoulder. The taste of salt-sweat and Dean explodes on his tongue and he licks his lips to soak up more of it. "So you plan on pulling out or what?"

"Not anytime soon," Dean says smugly, wiggling his hips in a little tighter to prove his point. Sam can feel the slip-slide of his friend's soft dick inside of him, the tiny trickle of come seeping out - it should feel weirder than it does.

With a put-upon sigh he doesn't really feel, Sam settles in, flexing his fingers a little to get the blood flowing back where Dean's finally released his deathgrip.

This is still fucked up beyond what words could possibly express, but it's what they are and more and more when they do this, Sam wonders whether there's any point in fighting it - especially when it feels this good to let go.


End file.
